


To Fall, Fell, Fallen

by Haberschnack



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Poor John, Reichenbach Feels, what happened between Sherlock falling and the funeral
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 13:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haberschnack/pseuds/Haberschnack
Summary: Just like that it was over. So easy. Just a split second and he was gone. His being eradicated for ever. A brilliant light snuffed out. Gone, gone, gone. So easily. He'd laugh, laugh and never stop if he'd have enough strength left. He'd laugh, cry, shout. But it was over. He knew he was in shock. How couldn't he not be after this. This, stupid, stupid brilliant man, seeing him fall.What happened to John the hours and days after Sherlock jumped of a roof? How does he cope with that traumatic experience? He punshed the Chief Superintendent and flet from the police. What are the consequences? Some questions I'd like to explore with this small spin off. Fill the gaps between the fall and funeral we didn't get to see.





	To Fall, Fell, Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome. First, as so many other hobby writers whose mother tounge isn't english, i'd like to thank you, dear readers, for being patient with my writing skills. There will be grammar mistakes, but i hope you'll still be able to follow the story easily.  
> This is my small, depressing spin off, of Sherlocks fall and the time directly after. I've read a very brilliant FanFic once (sadly can't remember where and when...) that inspired me to write my own spin on Johns termoil and shock, douchebag Chief Superintendent, very sorry Lestrade and hopefully a rueful Mycroft. We'll see. After this chapter there will be two more to go.  
> So, enjoy the ride, thank you for reading and don't spare me with your critic (having dyslexia isn't an excuse for horrible writing ^^)!  
> Cheers Haberschnack
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, not the TV-series and not Arthur Conan Doyles books. I make no money with it and don't intend to ; )

* * *

 

 

**To Fall**

 

Just like that it was over. So easy.

Just a split second and he was gone. His being eradicated for ever. A brilliant light snuffed out.

Gone, gone, gone.

So easily.

He'd laugh, laugh and never stop if he had enough strength left. He'd laugh, cry, shout. But it was over.

He knew he was in shock. How couldn't he not be after this.

This, stupid, stupid brilliant man, seeing him fall.

Gone.

Jumped, fallen through the air and crashed onto the asphalt.

Just like that.

A mere splatter of blood and crushed bones. Dark hair and coat, that ridiculous coat, spread on the ground like a halo and wings, broken, both so damn and bloody broken.

Blood and death. Funny how he never could get away from both. Blood and death.

So much death.

He was so tired of it. Seen it enough.

On sandy ground, in broken cities. In small huts, in cars, on the street.

A street like this, almost like this one, only the constant gunfire was missing.

Or was it? He likely was just ignoring it. Ignoring it to do his job. His mates needed him. He had work to do. What was he doing on the ground then, he needed to get to cover. Regroup, get all behind the line.

His body finally moved, instinct kicking in. His eyes scanned the street up and down.

He ignored his blurry vision, making every colour swim and shadows stretch. It was probably just the dust and smoke from the car wreck down the street. Was there a car wreck? It didn't matter. He looked behind him. His team was gone. They must have retreated, back to the building to his right, taking Walters with him. The bastard had rushed into the situation without thinking again. He payed the prize. A bullet through the knee. Rather bloody, but he'll live. They needed to regroup and get out of here. Too many hostiles. He heard them shouting. Garbled and sounding like they were coming through a unsteady com line.

Probably the adrenaline. He was in the middle of the street after all so no wonder his instincts were screaming at him to get out, behind cover.

Moving was difficult. He did not know if his knees were shaking or the ground. It did not matter.

Where was his team? Why was he struggling for a deep breath? The shouting came nearer. He could not see were he was going, keeping low, shaking knees bent and head down. His feet felt heavy, too heavy for his normal combat boots. Maybe it had rained. Or it was blood.

So much blood.

Splattered on the asphalt. Mixed with rain. Rain? It hadn't rained for weeks here.

Cold rain. Cold rain in London. Cold rain mixing with blood on grey stone. Cold rain mixing with blood on a London street.

He ran. Tried to. But the voices were there, together with hands. Hard hands grabbing his shoulders, arms, hands, pushing him down.

He struggled.

He tried to fight them. The voices were angry. He was angry too, so he shouted back. Kicking and screaming to let him the fuck go.

Fucking bastards.

They wouldn't get him. His Team needed him. He was their medic, their captain. Where were they? Did those bastards get them too?

He kicked harder. Finally colliding with something soft that shouted in obvious pain. He pushed hard with his legs, wrenching his arms free, swinging them wildly.

Run, he needed to run. A weight collided with him, crashing with him to the ground.

Hard stones dug into his knees, scraping his hands. Were where his gloves?

His head, somehow missing his helmet -he never took of his helmet while they were on a mission- collided with the same unyielding stone and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

The man looked smaller than he really was in the tiny dark holdingcell.

Bloody scratch marks on his bound hands made a stark contrast to his pale skin. Even his hair was matted with blood.

His jacked was gone, as were his shoes. Fragile, brocken, so very brocken.

Lestrade bit back a curse and turned to the officers who had brought him in. Their report was quite disturbing.

Lestrade had arrived at the scene after they had apprehended the fugitive John Watson and already taken him back to the yard. There had been a commotion and some violence, he'd heard about, but hadn't had the time to inquire more about it because there was Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes, lying dead on a gurney in the Morgue. Bart's Morgue.

He jumped from the roof. Proclaimed dead after impact.

Dead.

Sherlock was dead.

Lestrade had witnessed some gruesome deaths, murders, shootings. But suicides were always the hardest. And this time he knew the victim. He knew him.

Did he really? He thought he'd known him.

The great Sherlock Holmes. More brilliant than anyone he ever encountered. Too brilliant for this world. And cruel.

He jumped. Left them here to pick up the pieces. Fragments they would never find and bring in order. His mind, he was the one who had held them all together. All the secrets, all the knowledge. Gone, dead.

Damn bastard. Damn him.

Molly was waiting with the body. Stone faced and so, so pale.

He couldn't look her in the eye. He knew that Molly was one of the last who hadn't been corrupted by Moriarty's lies, or Rich Brook, or whoever that bastard was. She'd never doubt him. She was loyal and Lestrade hadn't been. No, he went like all the other sheep to the Chief Superintendent, listened to Donovan's accusations. He should have put his food down.

He should have done something. He cursed for real now and the men had the decency to look somewhat guilty. “What happened?” he asked, his voice tired and flat. Whatever their answer was, he wouldn't like it.

The officers shuffled nervously until one of them stepped forward. He was one of the younger blokes. They were all pretty young, but that might be just Lestrade's thinking. He was feeling rather old today. Weary and tired.

The whole night they had been looking for Sherlock and John. At noon they got a tip that Watson had been back to Baker Street but had left again before they got to him. The next sighting had come from an officer who had witnessed a man on the Roof and someone who looked like the fugitive Blogger on the street below.

“Sir, the man resistet with brute force. He was violent and threatened to kill us. He kicked me in the groin. We had to pin him down with two more men. He was batshit crazy!” the man, called Greeves, reported rather defensively and with hurt pride.

Another stepped forward. Franklin, a brute character when Lestrade recalled correctly. He already had a disciplinary case on his record for unnecessary force while arresting a peaceful subject. “That man is dangerous, heard he'd punched the Superintend in the face and was collaborating with a Terrorist, this Holmes guy. And could have had a gun!” the man spat.

Lestrade tried to contain his anger. There was no gun and the head wound told a clear story about the force they had used to subdue the smaller man.

“Has he been seen by the paramedics.” Lestrade bit out, not ready to hear the answer, for John had been down here for some hours now.

“No Sir.” was the dreaded answer.

Lestrade signaled the officer in duty of the holding cells to get him the key. He turned towards the cell again and pointed at the sunken in Doctor. “That man there is a Doctor and a War Veteran, an information supplied by the briefing every unit got last night. Highly trained and suffering from PTSD. He assaulted the Chief Superintend, yes, but then was taken Hostage by Sherlock Holmes. The order was to take him in for interrogation, peacefully. In this state he wont be able to answer any question!! Look at him!” he hissed.

"There is a protocol for handling these situation. You all know that. Is it so hard to at one and one together?" his voice had risen in volume. It was hard not to get personal in front of the men. His own feelings of regret and grieve weren't important, he had to set the record straight. These men had overstepped some boundaries and he had to step up as a superior. He wouldn't make the same mistake again with his subordinates. A mistake that let to the suicide of a great man and the possible destruction of a good friend and decent human being.

"At least he should have had some emergency care, at the hospitel, not dragged away unconscious and bleeding by the police, after at least ten vitnesses saw him having a panik attack after seeing someone jump from a roof!" Even saying those words were more painful than he could handel. But he pulled through, getting the important message through to them.  
“I will take him to the hospital myself and you lot get upstairs and finish your reports. You'll be lucky if Dr. Watson wont press charges. Or the media gets a hold on this story!” he growled and dismissed the others with one more disappointed glare.

Willis, the guard on duty had finally arrived with the key and gave him a friendly pat on the back. Lestrade feeling more tired than before just nodded and asked him to get an ambulance for Dr. Watson. “But the Chief said...”

“I'll deal with the Chief. This man has been in shock for the last 5 hours and likely has a concussion.” he snapped at the older man. Willis nodded and turned back towards his office to do as he was told.

Lestrade finally got what he had wanted to do right after he'd seen Sherlocks dead body. Look if John was okay.

John was not okay.

He stepped into the cell. The man hadn't moved at all. Likely hadn't moved since they put him in here.

Getting nearer he saw the tremor shaking the doctors form from head to toe.

“John, Mate. Can you hear me?” His voice soothing and quiet while he knelt down in front of him.

John did not react to his voice. His eyes were open but he was staring at nothing.

Lestrade reached for the other males bound hands. Slowly, not to spook the war-vet unnecessarily. John's skin was worryingly cold and clammy.

It was a sheer wonder that he hadn't collapsed already, but the detective knew what a stubborn bastard the other could be. Living through a war zone and an equal dangerous flatmate showed that he must have balls of steel.

“John, it's me Greg. Do you know where you are?” he tried again, circling one of the cold hands to take John's pulse. The rhythm was worryingly fast.

As feared John was still in shock and if not treated soon he'd just collapse, might even have a heart attack.

“Why don't you lie down for a bit, till the paramedics are here. You must be exhausted mate.” The unresponsiveness of his friend was frightening.

Lestrade was careful while he manipulated the doctors body to lie down on the hard bench, he had been sitting on. He took of his coat and draped it over Johns body to conserve some warmth the other needed. The last thing he did was taking the jeans clad legs and holding them up to help with circulation.

He tried to talk to John again, but he did not know about what. He did not feel it was his place to offer comfort. Being one of the people who might have been able to prevent this.

There were so many what if's and questions unanswered. Why had Sherlock done something like that.

Jumping, falling to his death. Had he confessed something to John? Had they been together all night?

He couldn't believe that Sherlock was a fraud, or even invent someone like this James Moriarty, but there were still things he needed to know. But the one who held all the answers was dead in Bart's Morgue and the other one was possibly on his way there.

He was pulled out of his depressive thought patterns when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to address the paramedics but was greeted with the angry red and swollen  face of the Chief Superintend.

“What's the meaning of this Lestrade?” he hollered, face turning an ugly shade of purple, his glasses sitting crooked on his swollen nose. Donovan and Officer Greeves were behind him, Willis brought in the rear with an apologetic look on his wrinkled face.

“I'm doing what is my duty as a public servant and a decent human being, Sir” the Sir was more an afterthought. Lestrade was angry. Yes this man was his superior but not one he ever respected as such.

“This is your last warning Lestrade, I will suspended you this instant if you don't step away from this cell. This man is a wanted criminal! He assaulted me! He is dangerous and under investigation to have helped a suspected terrorist and a fraud!” he raged, but Greg wasn't listening. He was looking at John who showed the first sign of alertness. His eyes were flitting over the room, probably searching for the threat while his breathing, first shallow and slow was becoming more erratic. Lestrade knew a panic attack when he saw one.“Would you shut up, please!” he hissed at the fuming man.

“Lestrade...!” The arriving paramedics interrupted the Chief efficiently when they rounded the corner to the holding cells. “Over here!” Willis waved them over.

Donovan who had been very quiet since they arrived at the site of the suicide, pushed the portly Superintend out of the way to let the three men into the now very cramped cell. Lestrade gave them a short report what had happened to the Doctor. He even warned them of possible problems with John Watson's history as a war vet and the possible PTSD. The men worked efficiently and calm, getting the still unresponsive man on a gurney.

Bundled into a emergency blanket and a saline drip in his arm he was wheeled from the cell. Lestrade followed them out. Ignoring the Chief's angry shouts, of suspending him. He was going to quit anyway. He hadn't been a good friend to Sherlock the last 24 hours, but he could be a friend to John now, who needed someone on his side.

The doors of the ambulance closed and they rushed to the nearest hospital.

 

To be continued 

 

 


End file.
